


Like a Machine

by Kaiosea



Category: Infinite (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M, Model AU, written for season three on LJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiosea/pseuds/Kaiosea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sungjong arrives home near midnight, mask of makeup cracking over his cheeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for and originally posted in the Infinite fic event, Season Three [on LJ](http://seasonthreee.livejournal.com/6646.html). Each of us received a quote, image and song/MV from three other participants in the challenge, with the prompters and authors later revealed. I enjoyed the challenge of trying to work together three prompts and ended up with a Yeoljong Model AU. (May have some inaccuracies about the modeling/photography industry, especially in Korea.) 
> 
> Here are the prompts I received:  
> 1\. Quote: "There's no such thing as fate. It's simply a combination of one circumstance with another. And who is it that creates those circumstances?" (Tokyo Ghoul)  
> 2\. Image: [image (may be nsfw)](http://40.media.tumblr.com/4f257696c58104effcf2890a950d2c47/tumblr_mwaezpiu1T1qhja73o2_1280.jpg)  
> 3\. Song: [Modern Swinger- The Pink Spiders](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJmP-o6Avig)

Sungjong arrives home near midnight, mask of makeup cracking over his cheeks. Makes ramyun, because his manager isn’t there to tell him about how unhealthy it is, and eats it quickly, burning his tongue in his eagerness to get to bed. He’ll be waking up in less than six hours.

A line creases his smooth forehead as he considers the next day’s photoshoot, washing up his bowl. He isn’t fond of people who use their fame to get things, and though they’ll meet for the first time tomorrow, Sungyeol—icon, household name, beauty—definitely qualifies.

Sungyeol first rose to fame as a model like Sungjong, though there’s an age gap between them of a few years and Sungyeol had started a few years earlier, meaning Sungjong is almost two waves of “new faces” behind him. Sungyeol’s widespread appeal, in Sungjong’s opinion, was mainly his obscene height, which facilitates long legs, long arms, and his natural thinness.

Shortly after becoming famous, Sungyeol leveraged his time in the limelight, proclaiming that he was embarking on the career of photographer as well. Over the last few years, he’s become rather well-known, though he photographs celebrity more than fashion, and his name is trashed in the highest-class circles, as Sungjong knows those from low beginnings often are. Lately, Sungyeol models so rarely that he’s said to be off the market, and it’s not like he needs the money.

Sungjong often hears models speak of Sungyeol as the lucky one who made it big, successfully changing his career—from _object to subject,_ a newspaper said. Sungjong doesn’t know if that’s true. Some photographers spit on Sungyeol’s beginnings as a model, say that he should’ve stayed on the other side of the lens, has no talent and rides on his fame. These are the photographers who envy him for his fame, but envy is a pitiful thing, something Sungjong experiences too often. Sungjong doesn’t know whether their claims are valid; he doesn’t know good art when he sees it, but he sees the petty motivations behind the criticism.

And Sungjong remembers, as he climbs into bed, that much as he doesn’t like Sungyeol, he does not envy him, either. Sungjong’s own appeal, in his own opinion, is his uniquely pretty face. He enjoys modeling, and he’s very good at it. Some people might have compared him to Sungyeol—it’s the pretty eyes, they say, but Sungjong doesn’t see the resemblance himself.

He doesn’t understand why he has to do this shoot. Hopes it won’t hurt his reputation or image to be photographed by Sungyeol, and though he doesn’t want to be in gossip magazines (since those always turn on you in the end) a small boost in fame could help his paychecks.

More importantly, this is where his manager wants him, and so Sungjong will go.

 

 

In person, Sungyeol is serious. Sungjong’s seen him joking on television, lighting up a room with charisma, but he searches and finds little of that radiant presence when he first shakes hands with him, the resident photographer for the day. Sungyeol’s hands are warm, probably from manipulating the camera, and Sungjong’s are their usual frigid temperature.

The set is barely opulent, three walls of a room that could look luxurious if it possessed a fourth. Sungjong sits straight-backed in a fleshy armchair as he waits for the green light. 

And Sungyeol’s quiet, something that often comes with seriousness but is unexpected nonetheless. In still photos, his mouth and full cheeks bloom, giving the impression of speaking without movement, but as Sungjong watches him giving instructions to the lighting technicians, he swears Sungyeol’s mouth barely moves, a block of marble carved into a permanently beautiful shape.

At last Sungjong stands in front of hot lights in a fuzzy winter coat; the sun’s blaring heat outside, but Sungjong is cool, cool, cool. He loves the camera like a machine; the tool is his to own and control, its lens focuses only on him. He lifts his foot to a glass table, exposing the inside of a pale thigh atop thick black boots, and rests his elbow on his knee. 

Image is something for others to control; it’s not up to him.

He clenches down on his jaw; it’ll give him a lingering headache if the shoot goes for longer than an hour, but it emphasizes the curve of his bone, letting light caress his jawline at a better angle. But out of the corner of his eye, Sungjong can see Sungyeol motioning to the lightening technicians, and the room dims. Sungjong conceals his frustration, as he prefers to be well-lit. 

“A smile,” Sungyeol says. 

Sungjong turns on his best and brightest.

“More languid,” Sungyeol says, “Like it’s raining.”

Sungjong drapes an arm behind his head, lengthens the angle of his legs.

“Not like that. Like there’s sluice down the window, and it’s turning into ice, and you’re not cold but you see it wherever you look.”

Sungjong purses his lips, creases his brow. “How is that, then?”

Sungyeol says, “Can you dim the lights more?” 

And Sungjong understands that he was wrong about Sungyeol. From planes of shadow, Sungjong sees the appeal Sungyeol must have had a few years ago—it’s the fullness of his face, set off by tanned cheekbones. Being behind the curtains of this occupation, Sungjong is rarely impressed by others’ beauty, but something in his chest tightens. So photographers are allowed to tan, are they? A momentary jealousy overcomes him, since not only is Sungjong not allowed, he can’t: his skin burns easily in the sun, a showcase of fragility.

Sungjong tries to renew his coldness, flashing the iciest glare over his shoulder. 

After the shoot, Sungyeol comes over to him and abruptly launches into a solicitation. He says, “I’ll do a personal set with you, if you like. Beauty shots, no merch.”

Sungjong catches his breath. He doesn’t care for artistic aspirations if they don’t have monetary compensation, but still, he has to ask, “How would you photograph me?”

“In full color,” Sungyeol answers promptly. “I don’t like black-and-white. With your earrings in. Waist up.”

Sungjong doesn’t do waist up, which means shirtless. Not yet, at least—he’s held out so far, but he’s open to changing his mind for the right opportunity.

This isn’t the right one, and he refuses Sungyeol quietly, so that he doesn’t raise a fuss.

 

 

The photos run six months later, in the winter cold. Sungjong steps outside and is greeted by a flashbulb—this does not faze him. What does are the twenty more that follow.

He always puts on his face before venturing outside: BB cream, dashes of color where a blush should live, and eyebrow work, so it’s fine that he is seen like this, he decides. His image will remain pristine, and more fame is a better thing.

The flashes disorient him, a far cry from the control of his daily job.

“You are a star,” his agent tells him when he checks in at the office, after shaking off a few amateurs on the way in.

Sungjong says, “I know.” 

“You’ve been offered a shoot with Sungyeol.”

“I did one with him already. I don’t want another.”

“No,” his agent says. “You did one _for_ him. Not with him.” 

“ _With_ him?” Sungjong can barely believe his ears. “Together?”

“Yes, I tried to tell you. It would be a shame to turn this down.”

Sungjong clears his throat.

 

A variety of shorts and light T-shirts are set out on dressing tables, and Sungjong is sent to change as soon as he arrives.

The material slides on like the kiss of a new lover, soft and sweet. The shorts display only centimeters above his knees when standing, but when he sits they reveal a larger length of thigh.

There are two chairs on set outside, where they’ll be taking advantage the natural cold sunlight. Sungyeol says nods to him quietly, his face the smooth block of marble it was the last time they met, with only slightly more expression in the eyes. They move outside shivering, without speaking. 

Sungyeol is easier to be around this time, since Sungjong knows to expect no smiles and serious-face. He’ll be a challenging partner, because Sungjong knows exactly how well Sungyeol photographs and doesn’t want to disgrace himself. He sees the shot in his mind, recognizing where the holes between their bodies should form artistic shapes, and where there should be no space between them.

That is, at the elbows, thumbs, waist.

“Shirts off?” The photographer says rather softly. He’s rather handsome in his own right,

The photographer must be unfamiliar with Sungjong’s policy, so he directs his eyes to his manager, hoping she will let them know that he doesn’t do that—

But it appears the photographer knows Sungyeol, who throws him a wink, and the direction was only to him. Sungyeol reacts like an enthusiastic beach-goer, whipping his shirt off in a fluid motion.

They strike a pose.

In between frames and wardrobe changes, Sungjong sneaks looks at Sungyeol’s body up-close. It’s one that he’s seen before in magazines with even less clothing on than this (he remembers a certain famous black-and-white underwear ad), but somehow this feels more vulgar, standing so close. Sungyeol has a nice tan going, and his skin looks soft, in contrast to the artificial hardness of his abs: a little natural, a little lighting, a lot of makeup. Industry secrets.

Sungyeol’s skin is warm close to his. Sungjong feels his body heat burning through the flimsiness of his tank’s fabric. He hadn’t felt intimidated before he stood so close to him, but now his breath quickens and he hooks his fingers into the belt loops of his pants, standing square on both feet, charting his course clearly.

The photographer calls for a more drastic pose change. Sungyeol must have worked with him before, because his body relaxes into the rhythm before Sungjong’s figured out the tune.

Sungyeol’s mouth curves up at the sides, and Sungjong thinks it can’t be a smile—not now, of all times.

 

Knowing that he’s played right into the plan, after the shoot Sungjong approaches Sungyeol.

Sungyeol is eating fresh berries, messing up his makeup. A crack opens at the side of his mouth, where they’d made him a little more airbrushed than natural, and Sungjong feels less intimidated.

“Here is my phone number,” Sungjong says. “For business matters only.” A transparent lie; the number is his personal cell, and Sungyeol will see the discrepancy between his scrawl and the printed number of his manager.

Sungyeol takes the card and nods, one corner of his mouth sliding up in a non-characteristic curve.

 

Sungjong goes about his daily routine; smiles, performs, poses, exercises. Jumps when they say to, and considers asking how high.

“Hey, this is Sungyeol. I’m calling for Sungjong.”

Sungjong would normally be put off by the lack of politeness in his greeting, but Sungyeol isn’t talking down to him, just speaking plainly. 

“Yes, I’ll do a shoot with you,” Sungjong says. In his free time, he’s his own manager, and it’s time he started to set himself up.

Sungyeol’s voice picks up an excited tone. “When works for you? My schedule is pretty free…”

 

The apartment is sprawling and messy. It smells like leftover food and new leather—so, not unlike Sungyeol’s scent.

Sungyeol seats him on a black couch, neither casual nor austere.

“Do you have anything for me to wear?” Sungjong had asked upon arrival, and Sungyeol had said, blinking owlishly behind glasses, “I thought you could wear just that. Your fashion sense is good. And I like your earrings.”

Sungjong has four of them in today, three in one ear and one in the other. The three in his left are plain silver loops, one a double-loop, and the one in his right has a collection of tiny black feathers dangling from more silver.

So there’s an element of unpredictability here. Sungjong gets the idea that Sungyeol doesn’t completely know what he’s doing, lucking into the right steps.

Sungyeol takes a picture of him. The flash is routine as ever, and with Sungyeol especially, Sungjong feels more commonplace.

“Do anything,” Sungyeol says, “Do nothing. Do whatever you want.”

What Sungjong wants is to lie down and press his face into the threadbare pillow and inhale. He wants to ask Sungyeol about his journey from no-one to model to photographer, and how he manages to still act like no-one. Sungjong would like to be that anonymous sometimes, unrecognizable except in the pages of a magazine, only turning into a real, live human being when he’s in three-dimensional space.

He sits there and lets his neck grow taller, his limbs melt into the couch. Sungyeol seems frantic at first, unsure of how to move at the right pace around him, splitting his attention between places in the room. 

Eventually, Sungyeol settles in front of him, kneeling with camera tilted upwards. Sungjong looks down at him and wets his lips, aware of the same heat he’d felt standing next to Sungyeol at their shoot. The camera isn’t pointed anywhere invasive or inappropriate, and the click is familiar, like that of a rhythmic machine. He poses and thinks. 

About the reasons he models; about the newfound fame he’s received. There are downsides, but he can’t bring himself to wear disguises and obscure the fragile appearance he’s cultivated. Criticisms come at higher rates too, saying he’s overly performed or too short for modeling, and they’ve hurt him more than he liked to tell anyone, even himself. It’s silence that does this to him, makes his mind wander. The camera freezes these moments in time artificially, capturing a pristine memory that never took place. 

He listens for the reassurance of the click, looks up and finds Sungyeol. 

Sungyeol says, “Want water?” 

Sungjong clears his throat. “Do you have ice?” 

Sungyeol nods and returns shortly, ice clinking in the glass. Sungjong drinks slowly, feeling strangely heated, though the temperature of the room is more than adequate. 

“An hour more?” 

Sungjong privately thinks he’d stay as long as he likes. 

 

 

The pictures turn out nice; Sungyeol shows him a few days later, and Sungjong relaxes once again inside his apartment. It’s nothing special, and that’s exactly what makes it perfect. 

“It looks like me,” Sungjong says. 

Sungyeol smiles, the turned up corner of one side of his lips. “You always look like yourself.” 

That makes Sungjong want to ask, _but what do I look like?_ If he’s not sure about what he looks like, then how can someone else, someone he just met who’s just as much of an image as he is, see something constant and worthwhile? 

They flip through and Sungyeol shows him his favorites, while Sungjong shows him the ones he himself likes best. Sungyeol nods slowly and gets quiet when he’s thinking deeply, and at the end he promises to have a few of them printed and framed for Sungjong. No cost. 

Sungjong has a thought before he leaves. 

“Someday, I’ll show you waist up,” he says, daring to decide his own future. “But when I do, you can’t take a picture.”

Sungyeol inhales.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are amazing! Concrit is welcome.


End file.
